


Boats

by My_Beating_Hart



Series: A Mahariel's Travels [16]
Category: Dragon Age: Origins
Genre: Boats, Gen, Gen Work, Group banter, Lake Calenhad, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-12-05
Updated: 2014-12-05
Packaged: 2018-02-28 06:17:22
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,989
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2721821
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/My_Beating_Hart/pseuds/My_Beating_Hart
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Finally the group reaches the docks of Lake Calenhad.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Boats

It was night by the time they reached the docks at Lake Calenhad, Theron squinting across the water as they began to descend the steep slope.

“Is that the Circle Tower?” He asked, and Alistair nodded.

“We’ll need to get the boat across.” The ex-Templar replied, pushing the door to the lakeside tavern open. It was small and cramped; even the party of seven - eight if they included Dudain - was almost too large for the room.

“Maybe we should go and see if the ferry can take us across tonight, rather than wait til morning?” Alistair suggested, and Theron nodded agreement, leaving the rest of the group in the tavern to sort out drinks and rooms.

The docks were deserted apart from an elderly man that the two soon learnt was named Kester.

"Wow, I've never seen one of you knife-ears dressed up like the king of Ferelden before. You made good for yourself, eh?" The human chuckled after he introduced himself, smiling at Theron.

The Dalish elf blinked in shock at such a casual use of the slur. Knife-ear. It was that sort of language that was hurled after his clan’s aravels whenever they moved on from hostile land, in order to avoid actual fights if they could help it.

He glanced down at his travel-stained leather armour, the odd fleck or two of blood that he hadn’t been able to clean out or had missed. How exactly did the king - or, queen, he supposed - of Ferelden dress?

_Knife-ear_.

“Is that so surprising?” Theron asked flatly, narrowing his eyes slightly at the old human, and Alistair shifted uncomfortably next to him.

“Oh, I didn't mean no offense. I know I shoot my mouth off... I'm just not use to your kind trussed up all fancy." Kester replied hastily, looking apologetic. Theron’s hand went to his bow, merely resting on the wood. _His kind_? Did the _shemlen_ think the Dalish walked around in something simpler than shabby leather armour? Leaves and furs, perhaps? Theron closed his eyes briefly, listing the reasons why he shouldn’t put an arrow through the man’s skull. Alistair would disapprove, for one.

“It’s a shame that an elf in decent clothing is so rare, then.” The ranger replied through slightly gritted teeth, and Kester gave him a cautious, but honestly apologetic look.

"Oh, no doubt about it. You pointy-ears look better in fancy clothes than us clumsy lugs. Oh, there I go again. I don't mean nothing by it, I swear. I should... I should start over.”

Theron shook his head, looking at Alistair.

“I’ll go see who wants to stay at the tavern for the night, can you keep talking to _him_?” He asked, barely waiting for the ex-Templar’s answer before he was pushing the door to The Spoiled Princess open. His mood was considerably worse now, something that Leliana picked up on almost immediately.

“What’s wrong?” She asked as Sten moved his chair slightly so Theron could sit at the table with them. The Dalish elf shook his head, absently scratching behind Dudain’s ear when he felt the hound press his head against his thigh, and reached for one of the tankards of ale they’d saved for himself and Alistair.

“Humans.” He sighed as he took a drink, not really wanting to talk about it.

Alistair came in a few minutes later, almost too loud for the small building in his heavy armour.

“Right, Kester - the old man standing just outside - said that Knight-Commander Greagoir sent a Templar named Carroll to take his boat and stop anyone from getting in or out of the Tower.” He reported, sitting down on the opposite side of the table from Theron, next to Leliana.

“Why?” Morrigan asked, looking up from idly tracing patterns of frost on the tabletop. “Surely all those Templars and their pet mages still need supplies brought across?”

“Apart from that. Not even recruits or apprentices are being let across.” Alistair shook his head in mild frustration, pulling the untouched tankard towards him. “Something to do with magic, he said.”

“Naturally. Tis the Circle Tower.” Morrigan pointed out.

“This is what happens when your _Bas Saarebas_ are not leashed and controlled.” Sten commented.

“We have discussed this. That practice is inhumane.” The witch said, voice sharp with anger. Theron, Zevran and Leliana exchanged weary glances, and Alistair slowly rested his forehead in his free hand. Oghren seemed to be more concerned with downing his second tankard in one go than the threat of a philosophical debate.

“Alistair, is there no way of getting across?” Zevran asked, before the topic was derailed into another heated discussion of mage rights. From the way the innkeeper and the two other patrons were looking at them, raised voices from a sinister looking apostate and a heavily armoured Qunari were the last thing they needed. Morrigan and Sten scowled at each other, and the witch edged over on her seat at one end of the table, closer to Oghren and Leliana rather than continue sitting right next to Sten.

“I tried talking to Carroll, see if he could take some of us across, but even when I told him it was Grey Warden business he refused.”

“Perhaps he requires a bribe, then. Or... Is he heavily armoured?” Zevran suggested, running a thin finger around the rim of his tankard.

“We’re not killing him.” Theron chipped in, ignoring the blond’s disappointed look.

“If we did, we may have to row ourselves across.” Leliana agreed, looking unenthusiastic at the idea.

“He asked me to prove I was a Grey Warden.” Alistair added, frowning in confusion. “How can I prove something like _that_? Pull a genlock out of my pack and kill it?”

Oghren chuckled at the idea, setting his empty tankard down with a decisive thud and waving to the innkeeper to get him another.

“He didn’t even think the documents I had were real. They had the official seal on them!” Alistair huffed, pausing to take a long drink.

“Maybe he is simple?” Sten offered, and there were one or two slight nods of agreement.

“Twould make sense.” Morrigan reluctantly agreed.

“Maybe someone else could try?” Zevran suggested, surreptitiously inching his chair closer to the other elf. “Morrigan, a minute’s conversation with you and he will be begging to take us all across.” He smiled as he looked across the table at the witch opposite, before wisely leaning to the side to dodge the spray of frost, which hit the far wall with a deadly hiss.

“Hey now! No magic in here. Go to the Tower if you want to throw spells at each other.” The innkeeper called over from the bar, setting down the rag he’d been using to clean dishes and glaring at the group. Morrigan glared back, undaunted.

“Nice try, my sweet.” Zevran purred, shooting her a grin.

“Next time I shall not aim for your head, elf.”

With that, Morrigan stood up and strode out of the tavern.

“Okay, I’m assuming she’s either going off to plot your death, or traumatise Carroll somehow into taking us across.” Theron said when the door creaked shut, and he looked round at the group. “So, who’ll come to the Tower?” He asked, knowing there would perhaps only be room for three or four of them with Carroll in the boat. Sten was probably out, and likewise Dudain.

“I wouldn’t mind going, see if I can talk to Greagoir.” Alistair replied, leaning back in his seat and taking a long drink from his tankard.

“I’m stayin’ here.” Oghren announced, gesturing to the innkeeper for another refill. “Ale made outta _grain_. Doesn’t taste half bad.”

“How noble of you.” Zevran sighed at the dwarf opposite him, resting his head in one hand and toying with a thin blond strand of hair. “Such a martyr.”

“Do you think Morrigan would mind going?” Leliana asked.

“It would keep her from arguing with Sten again and risk getting us kicked out of the tavern.”

“D’you remember when that happened in Redcliffe?” Alistair chuckled, and Theron nodded in agreement.

“I thought she was going to set the place on fire.”

Zevran listened with curiosity; the events at Redcliffe had been just before he had joined the group, but he had heard what had happened from innkeepers and town gossips before he was able to ask five of the main participants directly (once they had grown used to his presence and he had decided to take his oath of loyalty seriously, of course).

"I would prefer to stay here for the night." Leliana ventured, no doubt longing for the chance to sleep in a proper bed in a building with walls and doors.

"Zevran, do you want to come along?" Theron asked, glancing at the Antivan sitting next to him with the faintest glimmer of hope in his eyes. The blond looked down at the rough table, pretending to think about it.

"Unless Leliana wishes to share a bed for the night, I will accompany you." He grinned, ignoring how Theron rolled his eyes and the bard smiled.

"Shall we go see if we can find Morrigan, then?" Alistair suggested, looking between the two elves. They nodded agreement, and left the tavern, Dudain trotting out after Theron despite commands to stay with Sten.

Thankfully, Morrigan was already at the docks, and judging from the terrified look on Carroll's face as well as the almost predatory gleam in hers they'd been talking.

"Oh, you were the one saying you wanted to get across before." Carroll said quickly when he saw Alistair walking towards him, trailed by the elves. "Because we could go, now. Right now. _Now_." He continued quickly, edging closer to the end of the jetty and further away from Morrigan.

"I'm not going to ask what you said to him, for once." Theron sighed, reaching down to bodily push Dudain back. "Stay here. You can't come with us." He explained softly, and the mabari whined. "We shouldn't be gone long. You might get Leliana's scraps or a bone from Sten if you play your cards right. Better than being stuck in a tiny boat." The ranger patted the hound on the head, and turned to watch with growing unease as Carroll helped Alistair into the boat - he cowered away from Morrigan, and let her step down unaided.

"I don't like boats. Never been in one." The Dalish elf muttered to Zevran, who smirked.

"I thought not. The forests must not usually be full of lakes or rivers that must be rowed across rather than passed around or forded."

"Mm."

“But you can swim, yes? Certainly better than me.”

"Remind me to teach you one day, when all of this is over."

Theron sighed, but knew if he dawdled he would only delay his own suffering and whatever problem the Tower was going through would grow. He let Carroll help him into the boat, eyes widening and legs trembling as he tried to find his balance on the rather unsteady ground - if it could even be called that. He blinked, and then followed the others' lead and sat down on one of the small benches. That helped him to keep his balance immensely, but he could still feel the water rocking what was essentially a curved piece of floating wood from side to side. He gripped at the side when Zevran sprang in after him, as light and sure footed as a cat. Why did he have to make everything look so easy and effortless?

"I really don't like boats." The black-haired man huffed as Carroll got in and pulled the oars up. Zevran grinned as the group started the journey to the Circle Tower and left the lights of the Spoiled Princess behind, reduced to specks along with Dudain's large form sitting on the thin strip of beach.

"We still have the return journey to make after this, you do realise."

“Creators help me.”

**Author's Note:**

> It occurred to me that the Dalish may not even really know what boats were, and so this piece was born. This was also an exercise in group dynamics and dialogue, and I'm curious as to whether it reads as hectic as it was to write.


End file.
